The debate in the trailer was necessarily hurried—the team had a tight timeline in which to concoct a mission. The good news was that if all went well they were looking at no more than a surveillance op, and everyone involved was experienced and accustomed to fluid tactical situations. The biggest worry was the limited intel they were working from.
To begin, Aaron drew a comically amateurish map on a wall-mounted whiteboard: scrawled in different colors were a squiggly coastline, Argos’ position, and four viable ports from which smaller vessels might be expected to sortie sometime in the next eight hours. This was the most damning variable—there was no guarantee Argos would even perform another offload tonight. Given what they knew, it seemed probable, but if nothing happened, the consensus opinion was that they should return to Eilat and take another day to prepare.
Aaron’s artistry was heckled unreservedly as the work of a grade school dropout. It was the kind of levity born of stress, and tonight predictably short-lived.
“We should begin with our preferred outcome,” said Bloch. “Our primary objective is to discover what’s being brought ashore in these containers. Secondarily, we would very much like to avoid any knowledge of our presence.”
“That might not be easy,” said Tal, who was tipped back perilously in a molded plastic chair. Everyone was seated around the big table, and for the first time Slaton noticed a large brown stain in the center. He hoped it was coffee.
Bloch put everyone on notice. “The last thing we want is to get into a firefight. Headquarters has gone over last night’s footage intensively. We think Argos is crewed by civilians, but we’ve distinguished a small security contingent that look professional—between four and six men.”
“That’s only Argos,” Slaton said. “What about the receiving boats?”
“That requires a bit more speculation. To begin, there is no guarantee the same transfer boats will be used. Even if not, it’s probably safe to assume that if another offload takes place tonight, we will at least see the same types of vessels and crew. The boats last night were clearly working boats, locals most likely, who’d been hired out for the evening. We suspect they were operated by their usual crews, but each boat carried one or two armed men, most likely from one of the regional militias.”
“Which militia?” Aaron asked.
“There’s no way to tell from a few satellite shots. You can make that your third objective—take a few pictures if possible to help us identify the boats and crew. Along this stretch of the Red Sea coast, there are any number of characters who might be involved.”
“But this isn’t happening only in the Red Sea,” Slaton argued.
The three commandos lasered in on Bloch, clearly not having been briefed on Cirrus and Tasman Sea. The former director filled them in on two other ships anchored off distant shores of the peninsula. “Argos is the nearest to Israel, so she is our greatest concern. For the same reason, she is also the most accessible. Find out what this ship is delivering, and we can reasonably extrapolate the results to the other two.”
“Okay,” said Matai, “so how do we go about this?”
“Boarding Argos would be my last choice,” said Aaron. “We could manage it, and we’d learn what’s in the crates—but to do that without being seen would be difficult. It also raises the chance of fireworks exponentially.”
“Agreed,” said Tal.
“Based on what you’ve seen,” Slaton said, addressing Bloch, “does the cargo being transferred look uniform?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“I’m wondering, if we get a look at what’s on one of the smaller boats—would that be representative of what the others are carrying?”
“From the imagery I’ve seen so far, yes. But it’s a good point.” Bloch scribbled a note on a small pad. “I’ll put the question to our analysts.” He went to the white board and used tape to post a half dozen high-resolution images from Ofeq-11. Four showed Argos during last night’s offload, and the other two depicted later shoreside operations with the smaller boats docked in port. That done, he looked expectantly at his hastily assembled team. “You, gentlemen, are the experts. How do we go about this?”
Aaron said, “To begin, we follow the cargo through its entire journey—we can’t discount any opportunity. It begins in Argos’ main hold. As discussed, getting on board for a look without being seen—that would be high risk. Once the cargo has been loaded onto the smaller boats, the same problem is magnified. It would be even harder to get aboard and have a look undetected.”
“We could sink one of the smaller boats,” Tal suggested.
“How deep is the water?” Slaton asked.
Aaron referenced a nautical chart on the main table. “Right now Argos is anchored on the thirty-meter line. As you get closer to shore things gradually shallow out.”
“That’s doable,” said Tal. “Sink one, and with our dive gear and scooters we do a quick salvage operation at less than a hundred feet.”
Silence ensued as the four commandos weighed it.
Slaton was the first to call out the plan’s weaknesses. “That still leaves a lot to go wrong. Attaching explosives to do the job—that wouldn’t be easy. If the blast takes place alongside Argos, everyone knows something is up. We might get a look at what hits bottom, but it raises too much suspicion.”
Aaron came up with a modification. “If a charge sinks one of the transfer boats on the way back to shore, you limit suspicion to the few guys on that boat. There would be a hell of a lot of scrambling while it went down—maybe they would only think they’d hit a reef.”
“Or maybe they would all drown,” Slaton argued.
“Are we worried about casualties?” Aaron asked.
“We’re talking about smugglers,” said Bloch, which was a clear enough answer. “But if an entire boat and crew disappear—once again, it raises a warning.”
Tal added, “It would be tricky to set a timed charge anyway. Without knowing the speed or the course the boat will take, there’s no way to tell exactly where it will go off. Any minor miscalculation, and we could end up searching for a shipwreck in open ocean.”
“In the middle of the night,” Slaton added.
“What if we do it close to shore?” Matai suggested.
“We don’t know where that is,” Slaton argued. “We can’t assume these boats will necessarily return to the ports they launch from.”
Everyone sat staring at the white board.
Slaton stood slowly. He walked over and studied one of the satellite images.
“What is it?” Aaron asked.
Slaton tapped the photo that had gotten his attention. “We said we should follow the cargo all the way to shore. I think we missed one part.” He looked at Bloch. “I need a little information.”
“About what?”
Slaton told him specifically what he wanted. It wasn’t particularly technical in nature—more logistical.
Bloch picked up his phone. As he did, Slaton glanced up at an old analog clock on the wall. It was running ten minutes slow, which could have been due to old batteries. More likely—someone’s attempt to ease the time crunch.
“It’s evening,” Bloch said as his call ran to the right department. “Most of our researchers have gone home.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I’ll have to curse more loudly than usual.”
* * *
Captain Zakaryan found Ivan in Argos’ officer’s mess. He was sitting with two of his men, three empty food trays on the table. Each man had a coffee cup, and a nearly empty bottle of vodka was between them. An hour ago there had been two full bottles.
“What time will your festivities begin tonight?” Zakaryan asked.
Ivan scowled.
As a sea captain, Zakaryan knew a good deal about men and drinking. In his experience there were two kinds of drunks: those who turned giddy and lighthearted, and those who tended toward belligerency. The underlings were both grinning stupidly, but there was no question into which category Ivan fell.
“Same as last night,” he said, his speech surprisingly unslurred.
“Will tonight be the end of it?” Zakaryan asked.
“Maybe so.”
“I’ll have the loading crew ready.”
“Good. I hope they are in better form than the cook. The beef tonight was crap.”
All three Russians seemed to wait for Zakaryan’s retort. He wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of losing his temper. “Where will we go next?”
“Out to sea. Back toward the Mediterranean, I think. I hear the south of France is lovely this time of year.”
“France? Perhaps we should send a message to the owners to see if they agree.”
“No message is necessary,” Ivan growled. “Your orders are to go where I tell you.”
“And in the meantime,” one of the other men said, more drunkenly than his superior, “take away these trays. They are attracting flies like a pile of shit.”
The two junior men burst out laughing.
Zakaryan turned toward the companionway and left the Russians behind. He took solace in the idea that he would soon have the chance to revisit his decision to stay on as Argos’ captain.
Soon this will be over, he told himself. He tried to remember in what computer file he’d stored his old résumé. The other shipping lines might or might not be hiring—but it was time to move on.
* * *
Bloch had answers twenty minutes later. He walked to the photograph Slaton had zeroed in on, and referenced his notepad—he’d been scribbling constantly during the phone call.
“The crane on Argos is a standard jib configuration, with a weight rating of twenty-five tons. The main cable is most likely eighteen-millimeter braided steel, ending in a hook block. From there you have a double sling made of a high-tensile composite fabric. It cradles the load at four attach points.”
Slaton said, “And the load is essentially a square crate the size of a standard pallet. Weight unknown, but presumed heavy.”
“Correct,” said Bloch. The former Mossad director waited a few beats before asking, “Have I answered your questions, David?”
“You have.” He explained what he had in mind, and everyone took a few moments to wrap their heads around the idea.
“It solves pretty much every problem,” Aaron agreed.
“But do you think it’s feasible?” Tal asked. “Can we do that?”
“I can’t speak for you guys … but I’m pretty sure I could manage my part.”